


event horizon

by curiositykilled



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Astral Projection, Eventual Happy Ending, Kuron deserves better, Kuron is Shiro (Voltron)'s Clone, M/M, Mind Control, clone theory, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-03-31 02:32:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13965465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: He’s not sure what he’s doing. He didn’t really know what they were doing the first time, to be honest, but he definitely doesn’t know what he’s doing now.Last time, it was desperate – a life-or-death Hail Mary. They’d all been striving together for the same thing through Voltron. He’s not sure how these things work, but he’s pretty sure it’s more likely to work in that situation rather than here, sitting cross-legged on his floor in pajamas.“Come on,” he mutters, closing his eyes and clutching his bayard a little closer.He tries to tap into the same feeling they used last time. Try as he might, though, he can’t find it. The situation is too different. He doesn’t have that same desperate certainty. All he has is questions and a prickling apprehension.Opening his eyes, he rubs angrily at the tears gathering there. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he doesn’t really know why but he knows he needs to. There’s something wrong, and that moment on the astral plane holds answers. He needs to find them.“Please,” he begs. “Please just help me do this.”





	1. Chapter 1

                  He’s not sure what he’s doing. He didn’t really know what they were doing the first time, to be honest, but he definitely doesn’t know what he’s doing now.

                  Last time, it was desperate – a life-or-death Hail Mary. They’d all been striving together for the same thing through Voltron. He’s not sure how these things work, but he’s pretty sure it’s more likely to work in that situation rather than here, sitting cross-legged on his floor in pajamas.

                  “Come on,” he mutters, closing his eyes and clutching his bayard a little closer.

                  He tries to tap into the same feeling they used last time. Try as he might, though, he can’t find it. The situation is too different. He doesn’t have that same desperate certainty. All he has is questions and a prickling apprehension.

                  Opening his eyes, he rubs angrily at the tears gathering there. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he doesn’t really know why but he knows he needs to. There’s something wrong, and that moment on the astral plane holds answers. He needs to find them.

                  “Please,” he begs. “Please just help me do this.”

                  He closes his eyes again and grabs onto that feeling. He thinks of Blue, of Red, of all of them striving together. He thinks of Shiro’s voice calling out.

                  There’s a shift in the air. He opens his eyes, and his jaw drops.

                  His room is gone. The floor is gone. Stars soar overhead in impossible galaxies of purple and pink, and they’re mirrored below where he sits. As he watches, he realizes they’re moving separately and something in his inner ear just gives up. It all starts to wobble. There is no floor. He’s sitting in open space.

                  “Holy shit,” he says weakly as the world starts to spin in dizzying circles.

                  “Lance? Lance!”

                  A finger runs towards him, shadowed and blurry on the edges. He’s not sure if it actually has two doppelgangers or if his vision’s going. He can’t make out the face – only white and black blurs.

                  Shiro hits him with the force of a small train. Wrapping his arms around Lance, he hauls him up as if he weighs nothing. Lance goes limply, too stunned to move. His face is pressed into the hard collar of Shiro’s armor and his arms trapped by his sides. Normally, he’d be wriggling free immediately. As it is, he can hardly think through his surprise.

                  At last, Shiro releases him to arm’s length. His eyes rove over Lance, scouring his face. Lance stares back, still unsteady. There’s something different about Shiro, but he can’t place what it is.

                  “You’re here,” Shiro says. “What about the others? Are they, too?”

                  He looks past Lance as if he might spot Hunk or Pidge hiding somewhere in this bottomless space.

                  “Uh, n-no,” Lance stammers. “Just me. Sorry.”

                  “What?” Shiro frowns, the thickness of his brows turning it into an impressive scowl. “Why would you apologize? I’m just happy to finally see someone else. After that last time-”

                  He breaks off and shakes his head, gaze going a little distant. Lance frowns. Shiro turns back to him, expression earnest.

                  “How is everyone? How long has it been?” he asks.

                  “Shiro, I saw you like three hours ago,” Lance objects.

                  Shiro freezes. The smile that had started to turn up his lips fades away.

                  “What?”

                  “After dinner,” Lance says. “You and Coran were talking in the lounge when I headed to bed.”

                  Still staring at Lance, Shiro slowly shakes his head. His hands fall away from Lance’s arms.

                  “I haven’t been on the ship since our fight with Zarkon,” he says.

                  Lance shakes his head.

                  “No,” he says. “No, that’s not possible. I mean, you were missing for a while – a long time honestly – but you came back. You escaped. You’ve been fighting with us for months.”

                  He clutches his bayard closer to his chest even as Shiro crosses his arms. The frown has shifted to something like worry, doubt creeping into Shiro’s eyes. Lance clenches his fingers around either side of the bayard until it hurts.

                  “Lance,” Shiro says gently, “I don’t know who’s been with you, but it’s not me. I haven’t seen any of you guys since that fight. I’ve been here the whole time.”

                  Lance shakes his head again, as if to ward away Shiro’s words.

                  “That’s not possible,” he repeats. “We just talked the other day, remember? About when we were all here? That was you. You said your head’s been hurting and that – that…”

                  He trails off, not wanting to say the words aloud. The thought of them sends something cold down along his spine.

                  “That you didn’t feel like yourself,” he finishes quietly.

                  It clicks, abruptly, what seems different about Shiro. He looks like he used to – when they first found Blue, before he was captured again.

                  “Shiro,” he asks, voice shaking, “where are we?”

                  This isn’t a place, not in any real sense of the word. It isn’t somewhere a person could be for months – for a year. He takes a step back, through the echo of the stars above.

                  Shiro’s expression softens.

                  “It’s the astral plane,” he says. He doesn’t move to close the gap Lance has created. “I fought Zarkon here once – when he was using his bond with Black to track us. When we fought him that last time – I don’t know what happened really, but all of a sudden, I woke up here.”

                  He sighs and runs a hand back over his hair. It’s shorter than Lance last saw, the sides cut short the way they used to be.

                  “There’s no way to keep track of time here,” he says, “so I’ve just been – waiting. Hoping someone would hear me, I guess. And then I heard all of you calling for me.”

                  He looks up, meeting Lance’s gaze finally. Lance’s heart gives a painful lurch at what he sees there: desperation and hope mixed into one.

                  “Are you dead?” Lance blurts out.

                  “No, I don’t think so,” Shiro says seriously. “I can still feel – I can feel my body. Somewhere. It’s like I’m caught between two forces and can’t get out. When I try to look, I can’t see anything. Just white.”

                  As he speaks, his left hand reaches up absently to touch his chest over his heart. He doesn’t seem to notice till he turns back to Lance and drops his hand back to his side. There’s a scratch through the black Voltron mark that Lance hadn’t noticed before: it cuts down from the collar to split the ‘v’ in ragged halves. He tries not to think about what could have caused it.

                  “Keith should’ve been the one to come,” he mumbles. “Or Hunk or Allura. Someone who could help.”

                  “Hey, Lance,” Shiro says, stepping into his line of sight. His hand’s extended, and he rests it gently on Lance’s shoulder until Lance looks up to meet his gaze. “You being here helps. I’ve been alone here for – for months, I guess. Just having you here is more than I expected.”

                  Despite the sincerity in Shiro’s voice and eyes, Lance doesn’t really feel any better. He doesn’t know what he expected when he decided to try this, except that he hadn’t really expected it to work. Now, he feels useless and desperate. He was right – something is wrong – but it’s far too big for him to do anything.

                  “Could you – would you mind catching me up?” Shiro asks hesitantly. “You don’t have to tell me everything – just whatever you feel like.”

                  Lance nods slightly before swallowing and giving a firmer nod.

                  “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I can do that.”

                  The relief that washes over Shiro’s face is heartbreaking.

                  “Awesome,” he says. “Thank you.”

                  They sit down where they were standing, and Lance studiously doesn’t look down at the nothingness below. Shiro sits cross-legged, hands over his ankles, and all attention turned towards Lance. It’s overwhelming, for a moment, and Lance flounders as he tries to think of where to start. Shiro seems to sense his conflict.

                  “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” he says. “Just whatever comes to mind.”

                  “Okay,” Lance says. He pauses. “Well, Keith quit Voltron to join the Blade of Marmora.”

                  “ _What?!_ ”

                  Lance grins and dives in. He explains as much as he can, interspersed with questions from Shiro – “Who’s Lotor?” “You saw a _white hole?!_ ” – until he runs out of anything more to tell. His voice doesn’t go hoarse, even long past the point when it feels it should. Astral plane, Shiro points out. Their physical bodies mean nothing here.

                  When he’s run out of stories to tell, he starts asking Shiro about his time here in this starlit void. Shiro claims there’s not much to tell, but then he starts talking about how he’s figured out how to manipulate the plane around them and how to adjust it to his desired view. With a thought, the stars around them vanish to show a bustling city around them. There are no people, but it still _feels_ right – even with the occasional star glinting off a window.

                  “Wow,” Lance breathes, gaping.

                  “Yeah,” Shiro agrees.

                  His gaze passes over the buildings as if they’re familiar, and Lance’s heart gives a sharp pang. How many times has Shiro visited this place, wandered its empty streets just to see something? His wonder fizzles out into sadness.

                  “I wish I knew how to bring you back,” he says.

                  Shiro looks up, eyebrows raising slightly in surprise. He shrugs and drops them, though, turning away from the high rises to walk along the deserted road.

                  “We’ll figure it out eventually,” he says. “I’m sure of it.”

                  His optimism sounds forced, though, and it rings hollow in Lance’s chest. He’s been stuck here for over a year now. What hope he might have had has surely faded now. Lance turns away from the thought.

                  “Black didn’t accept the other you at first,” Lance says, though he’s not sure why.

                  This brings out real surprise. Shiro stops and turns to him.

                  “Really?” he asks.

                  His tone is flat, as if he’s struggling to sort through a mix of emotions. Lance nods.

                  “Yeah,” he says. “It really sucked. It only let him in when we were desperate and needed to form Voltron. Keith was off on a mission and we were getting hammered.”

                  As he speaks, Shiro nods slightly. He’s frowning again, but it’s a smaller, thoughtful one this time.

                  “I can still feel her,” he says. “Black, I mean. It’s quieter – like we’re far apart – but she’s still there. A while ago, she was really upset, and then she went silent for a long time. It was probably then.”

                  “You can feel her feelings?” Lance asks, because he’s not sure where else to go from that.

                  Even for a giant robot, the Black Lion has always seemed especially unapproachable. Twice the size of the others and literally the center of Voltron, it’s always been a little to big for him to wrap his head around. Even when he sat in its seat and wished desperately for it to choose him as its paladin, he had known it wouldn’t. It had felt like a shell around him, not like the vibrant energy in which he was cocooned whenever he neared Blue – or, now, Red.

                  Shiro lifts and drops his shoulders in a shrug.

                  “It’s a little fuzzy,” he admits. “They’re not feelings like we have – they’re more…images, sensations. It’s hard to explain.”

                  Lance nods, understanding. It’s not the same with Blue or Red, but he thinks he knows what Shiro means. The lions are certainly conscious, but it’s a different sort of consciousness than his or another human’s. The way they react and call to their paladins is something beyond his understanding.

                  “Does she know where you are?” he asks.

                  Shiro lifts a hand to scratch under his bangs. Somewhere in his playing with the reality around them, his paladin armor had disappeared to be replaced by his usual vest and pants. It’s a little disorienting: Lance has just gotten used to the other Shiro’s new look.

                  “I think so,” he says. “It feels like she knows where I am but can’t reach me.”

 _Maybe Keith could help,_ Lance thinks. The other Shiro probably isn’t going to be very useful for this. As soon as he thinks it, Lance feels bad. So far as he can tell, it seems like that Shiro really believes he _is_ Shiro and is doing the best he can.

                  “It’s going to really suck to tell the other Shiro he’s not you,” he voices aloud.

                  Shiro winces.

                  “Yeah,” he says. “I don’t imagine that’ll be easy. And we still don’t know where he came from or anything.”

                  He lets out a frustrated breath. Empathy drops Lance’s shoulders down, but he can’t find words to voice it. Instead, he reaches out and rests what he hopes is a comforting hand on Shiro’s shoulder.

                  “I mean, it’s kinda a good problem, right? Too many Shiros?” he offers.

                  It earns him an unamused look at first, but then Shiro chuckles and shakes his head.

                  “What was that one you met in the alternate reality? Sven?” he asks with a laugh. “We could start a band.”

                  Startled, Lance chokes out a snort that breaks into full-on laughter. Shiro beams, and for the first time in months, Lance feels his heart lift. Somehow, he’d forgotten what Shiro’s smile looked like.

                  “We’re gonna’ get you out, y’know?” he says. “I promise.”

                  Shiro turns to him with a smile, soft and sincere.

                  “I know,” he says. “I believe in you.”

                  They say goodbye with Lance’s promise to check in as often as he can and to talk to the others. Shiro’s calmer than when Lance arrived, but he still seems reluctant to part ways. He fidgets a little before pulling Lance into a last hug and wishing him good luck. Lance tries to tell himself that it isn’t really goodbye, but it’s hard to believe that when he can still see Shiro’s face in his mind, trying so hard to be brave.

                  He opens his eyes to his empty room, the bayard still held to his chest. Sighing, he drops his head back against his bed and stares up at the ceiling. Despite the challenges still ahead, a smile curls his lips. He’s never been half as close to Shiro as Keith is, but they’d been closer before he vanished. After the team’s recent fights with the other Shiro, spending time with the leader he’d known and trusted feels like aloe over a burn.

                  He exhales and resolves to talk to the team first thing in the morning. He screws up his face as he thinks of Keith. There’s no easy way to explain what’s going on, but it’d probably be better to tell him sooner rather than later. Coran’s probably still awake, anyway.

                  He’s just made up his mind to get up and find Coran when there’s a knock at the door. Frowning, he shoves himself to his feet and walks to the door, bayard left behind on his bed. The knock comes again.

                  “Yeah, I’m coming,” he calls.

                  The door slides open to reveal Shiro – or, well, the other Shiro.

                  “Oh,” he says. “Hi. What’s up?”

                  He doesn’t get an answer. This Shiro shoves him into the room with a hand around his throat. Lance chokes, stumbling back. Shiro follows. His grip is punishing, and the fingers dig into Lance’s neck like they’ll bruise. He coughs, bringing his hands up to pull at Shiro’s.

                  “Shiro! Please, c’mon buddy” – he breaks off as the fingers tighten – “Come on, this isn’t you.”

                  His eyes are scrunched tight against the sudden attack, and it takes him a moment to open them and realize that his words are truer than he knew: this isn’t Shiro – isn’t either of them. Instead of the dark grey eyes he’s known, glowing yellow glares back at him. _Oh, fuck,_ he thinks. He clings to the hand around his neck.

                  “Please,” he begs. “Please don’t do this.”

                  The hand tightens and that unnatural glow doesn’t waver. The voice that comes from Shiro isn’t his – it’s something twisted and strained to the breaking point.

                  “You’re never going to tell anyone else what you know, Paladin.”

                  Lance’s eyes water and his hands turn desperate as he scrabbles to break free. He’s grown strong in his time as a paladin, but Shiro’s grip is a vice around his neck. Black crowds the edges of his vision, and he whimpers as the grip tightens.

                  “Please,” he whispers.

                  The darkness swallows his vision whole. The last he sees is the yellow fading from Shiro’s eyes replaced, the start of something like horror replacing it.


	2. Chapter 2

                  He wakes with a pounding headache. His throat burns, and when he tries to swallow, the pain increases his headache to migraine levels. Opening his eyes only makes it worse: the room spins in dizzying loops. He scrunches them shut again against the nausea that follows and groans.

                  “Lance?” It’s Allura’s voice, and there’s a dip in the bed as if she’s just sat down beside them. “Are you awake?”

                  “Yeah,” he mumbles reluctantly.

                  He’d rather not be, but it seems it’s too late to hide now. There’s movement to his side, and then Allura’s lifting his hand and closing it around something cool. He squints one eye open to see that it’s just a glass of water. The light grey of the room is painful on his eyes, and he doesn’t try opening them further. As it is, he can feel his headache magnify like spikes of glass through his brain.

                  “It’ll help,” Allura assures him.

                  He’s pretty sure a heavy dose of Tylenol and ten hours of sleep would work better, but he complies anyway. She waits until he’s drained the whole glass, watching him expectantly. Halfway through the glass, the silence and her attentive stare become vaguely uncomfortable. He pulls the glass from his lips and raises his eyebrows. Allura catches his look immediately.

                  “I was hoping you could tell us what happened,” she explains. “Shiro is a bit confused.”

                  “Shiro?” Lance asks, bolting upright. “Shiro’s here?”

                  Allura frowns but nods. Lance’s heart pounds against his ribs.

                  “Of course. He’s just in the other room,” she says.

                  _Oh._ Lance drops back against the pillow. He’s not sure why that seemed so important, why his heart gave such a painful lurch. Of course Shiro’s here. He rubs at his forehead and tries to remember. All that comes is black.

                  “I’m not sure,” he admits. “I was in my room, I think…”

                  He trails off and starts to shake his head. The motion sends a fresh wave of nausea through him, though, and he stops immediately.

                  “I don’t know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

                  Her frown deepens, worry creeping into her eyes. Guilt mixes with nausea in his stomach in an uneasy roil. She has enough on her shoulders without worrying about him.

                  “Is Shiro okay?” he asks.

                  Allura nods slightly, though it doesn’t dislodge her worry.

                  “He’s shaken up,” she says. “We think you might have knocked yourselves out sparring – he has a bad headache and doesn’t remember what happened either.”

                  It doesn’t seem quite right, but Lance doesn’t voice his dissent. He and Shiro have never sparred for fun, much less in the middle of the night, but he doesn’t have any better ideas. He offers a grin.

                  “That does sound like something I’d do,” he says.

                  “Yes,” Allura agrees slowly. She shakes her head as if to brush away a thought. “Well, we’ll keep an eye on the two of you for now. In the meantime, please don’t start a fight with anyone else.”

                  She affects a joking tone, but it doesn’t cover the doubt and concern still in her voice. Lance’s stomach twists uneasily.

                  “Can I see him?” he asks.

                  He’s not sure why it matters, but there’s a gnawing urge in his chest to see Shiro. There was something important – something he needed to say… He can’t remember what, exactly, but the urgency remains.

                  “Of course,” Allura says, standing.

                  Being upright is, at first, enough to make Lance choke on vomit, but he forces it down and grits his teeth till the world steadies. Allura stands by his side as if ready to catch him. For a moment, he evaluates the benefits of collapsing into her arms before reluctantly rejecting the idea. The thought of adding to her worry is enough to dissuade him. He turns to bad flirting instead.

                  “You know, heroes in stories always sweep the injured damsel off their feet,” he remarks as they pass through the door.

                  Allura shoots him a dry look.

                  “Are you implying you’re the damsel?” she asks.

                  “Well,” Lance says, considering, “I did pass out, which is basically the same as swooning, and I don’t think you’ve ever been a damsel in distress.”

                  As hoped, Allura laughs and shakes her head. The return of her bright smile is a welcome change from her worry, and he relaxes to smile as well.

                  “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Lance,” she says as the next door opens.

                  It reveals a room much like the one they just left, with the same plain bed and walls and medical equipment. Shiro sits on the edge of the bed, staring down at his hands. He looks up as they enter and starts to stand. That urgent pull Lance had felt dies down, but more as if in disappointment than satisfaction. He ignores it.

                  “I’ll leave you two to it,” Allura says, adding over her shoulder, “Please be careful.”

                  Shiro opens his mouth to object, but she’s already gone. He sinks slowly back down to the bed as the door hushes closed. Stuck by the door, Lance shifts his weight awkwardly and searches for words.

                  “So, I guess Fight Club was a bad idea,” he finally blurts out.

                  Shiro stares back at him blankly, and Lance sighs inwardly. He didn’t know Shiro that well at the Garrison, but he’d always heard stories: about how the top student was also the life of the party, the exact guy you wanted for a good time. Some times, now, he wonders how those could be true. There are moments where it seems all Shiro’s personality has been wiped out to be replaced with only thoughts of their mission.

                  “It’s an old movie about – you know what, never mind,” he says. “Uh so you don’t remember anything either?”

                  Shiro shakes his head. He’s frowning again, consternation bringing his dark brows down to pinch over his nose. Lance feels a little bad for how frustrated he looks. Shiro doesn’t talk a lot about his time in the arena or its consequences, but they all had to sit through seminars on PTSD and the other psychological risks of being in space for years. It’s easy enough to tell that Shiro’s occasional flashbacks are just a glimpse of what he’s really dealing with.

                  “No,” he says. “I must have had a flashback or something but – it’s all blank. Sorry.”

                  His voice doesn’t sound quite right, but Lance can’t place why. _Probably just tired,_ he decides and moves on.

                  “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “It was probably my idea anyway.”

                  The world’s starting to spin again, and he mosies over to sit down beside Shiro. Silence stretches between them, stilted and uncomfortable.

                  “How’s your throat?” Shiro finally asks.

                  “Eh, not so bad,” Lance lies. “How’s your head?”

                  Shiro shrugs one shoulder.

                  “It’ll be fine,” he says, which really isn’t an answer at all.

                  The silence returns, somehow even more uncomfortable for the lack of space between them. Lance is just about to make an excuse to leave when Shiro turns abruptly to him with an earnest expression.

                  “Look, I’m really sorry about this, Lance,” he says. “I’d never mean to hurt you. If there’s anything I can do to – to make up for it...”

                  The urgent sincerity in his voice is enough to take Lance aback, and he laughs a little awkwardly as he glances away. Shiro’s eyes are too intense right now. They send something unnerving buzzing down his spine.

                  “Well, you did promise me a spa day before you disappeared,” he jokes.

                  “Okay,” Shiro agrees immediately. He laughs after a moment. “I’d completely forgotten that.”

                  Lance laughs too, unsure. Even at the time, it hadn’t been an entirely serious promise; they’d been talking about birthdays and when Shiro admitted to being a Leap Year baby, everyone had started demanding they pick a day to celebrate instead. There weren’t any leap years in space, after all.

                  “Man, you need to keep a journal or something,” he says.

                  Shiro cants his head, considering.

                  “That’s not a bad idea,” he admits. “I’ll talk to Coran about finding some paper. But a spa day might be a good way to rest up today.”

                  “Yeah,” Lance says. “Okay. Sounds good.”

                  It’s such a different mood than their conservations have had recently that he’s not really sure how to respond. It feels a bit like his world’s tilted on a different axis somehow, like the ground’s shifted beneath his feet. Shiro had said he didn’t feel right – maybe a hard hit to the head had knocked something into place. _Cognitive recalibration,_ he thinks and snorts. When he remarks as much to Shiro, he gets a blank look and apologetic smile.

                  “What! That’s a classic,” he gripes. “We really need to have a movie marathon.”

                  Shiro smiles a little at that.

                  “I’d like that,” he says.

                  Lance smiles back reflexively, and his heart gives a little heady pump. It seems like a long time since he’s seen Shiro really smile; they’ve all been stressed and what with the in-fighting between the team and Shiro, things have been strained. _Poor guy,_ he thinks. Being a paladin is hard enough – he can’t imagine the strain of trying to lead the team while dealing with all the trauma Shiro’s suffered. He resolves to make more of an effort to find time for them to relax. They all need it, anyway, and it would be good for the team.

                  “That’s it,” he declares. “Spa day first and then we’re starting a team movie night. Once a week, we binge watch something. There’s got to be Space Netflix, right?”

                  This brings out both a bigger smile and a laugh. Shiro shakes his head.

                  “Something like that,” he says. “Maybe Coran has some old Altean soap operas we can watch.”

                  The thought brightens Lance’s mood immediately. He used to watch his mom’s favorite novela after swim practice in high school, and the thought of the familiar pattern of dramas and intrigues is appealing – like a little bit of home a thousand light years away.

                  As if sensing Lance’s excitement, Shiro pushes himself up off the bed.

                  “Come on,” he says. “You should get to bed. I’ll ask Coran about the paper and shows.”

                  Lance grins.

                  “Thanks, Shiro,” he says. “And don’t forget about spa day in the morning!”

                  “Yeah, yeah,” Shiro laughs. “I’ll be there.”

                  Lance leaves the room less steady than when he’d entered. He can’t quite decide how he feels. Something still niggles at the back of his mind, both from Shiro’s shift in behavior and something else besides, but he can’t help the elation that bubbles under his skin at Shiro’s little smile and deep earnestness. He can’t remember the last time he had a conversation with Shiro that left him smiling; he’d almost forgotten how it felt to receive positive attention from the man who’d once been his idol.

                  He hums a little as he walks back to his room, one hand trailing along the wall to keep him steady. His head hurts a little less, but he’s still looking forward to getting back to bed. Maybe being in his room will remind him of something, give him some hint to what happened the night before, too. He’s not too optimistic, though; as strange as he and Shiro sparring at midnight is, it’s still probably the most reasonable answer.

                  As he passes the hangar doors, he pauses. Something tugs at him, like a knot tethered to his ribs. _Images, sensations –_ the words that whisper through his mind aren’t his own, and he hesitates a moment. The lions communicate in their own way, some times, but he’s never felt something like this. It’s a siren song, echoing through his bones.

                  “Red?” he asks as the doors open and he walks through.

                  The lions all stand dormant in their positions, lights off and jaws closed. Only the security lights of the hangar are on, and they glint along the metal edges of the lions’ armor. The half-light gives them an eerie appearance, like putting a flashlight under your chin to tell ghost stories. The pull tightens, but it’s not towards Red or Blue. He turns to Black, frowning. Like the others, it shows no sign of life: its great legs are locked in position and its eyes dark.

                  “Uh Black?” he tries but gets no response.

                  He stares a moment longer. Something pulled him in here. He walks a few steps closer without intending to, until he stands in the center of the lonely hangar. Black stares back over his head, its great form unmoving.

                  A shiver runs down his arms, and he turns to go. Something suddenly seems wrong. As he reaches the door, there’s a great mechanical groan behind him and he whips around. All the lions are still – but the Black Lion’s head has moved. It stares at him, eyes empty and ghostly. He bolts.

                  Running hurts his head more, but he doesn’t slow down till he’s halfway across the ship. Finally, he stops and drops his hands to his knees to pant. There’s no way the lion moved. They don’t do that – not on their own. He must’ve been wrong about which way Black was looking when he walked in. There’s no other explanation. Swallowing, he straightens up and continues on his way to his room.

                  Once inside, he breathes a little easier and slumps back against the door. His bed’s unmade, which isn’t much of a surprise if he got up in the middle of the night. Making his bed is a habit that was drilled into him by his mom, but it really only applies in the mornings. Now, the rumpled sheets are nothing but inviting. He sighs, boneless, before pausing and canting his head.

                  His bayard lies in the middle of the bed. He stares at it, trying to come up with a reason for it being there. Straightening up, he walks over and picks it up as if contact will provide answers. It lies there, inert, in his hands.

                  “What the hell,” he mutters.

                  He turns the bayard over, running his hand over the cool metal. That prickling apprehension from earlier returns, needle-like under his skin. Something nags at the back of his mind, a memory. He’d been looking for something. Searching –

                  A jolt of pain spears through his temple, and he drops the bayard as he stumbles back. His hand comes to his temple and digs in as if pressure can mitigate the pain. It doesn’t do much, but it fades enough for him to open his eyes again. They water, and he blinks back tears.

                  “Fuck,” he groans.

                  Whatever thought had been on the edge of his mind has slipped away, and when he reaches for it, the pain intensifies. Giving up, he picks up the bayard to put it on his nightstand before crawling back into bed. Maybe in the morning he’ll feel better. For now, all he wants to do is sleep. He stares at the bayard for a little longer, until his eyes start to burn and his eyelids droop. With a huff, he rolls over to curl around his pillow and closes his eyes.

                  He dreams of space.

                  Stars wheel overhead and galaxies blossom below his feet. He stands in something like water or liquid glass; it reflects back the nebulae above him. A voice calls out his name, but when he turns, he can’t make out the figure. It comes closer, closer, a black and white blur against the impossible sky. They call his name again, but the darkness fades in and the stars slip out of reach.

                 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yesterday, I was pretty sure that sweet poison and this one were going to be my angst babies but that SP would definitely be longer and darker while this one had a fairly fluffy ending
> 
> uh
> 
> that might not be true anymore


	3. Chapter 3

                  When he wakes, his headache’s gone and his throat feels better, but fatigue clings to him. He yawns, stretches, and determines that a spa day really is a good idea. Sliding on his slippers and robe, he shuffles out of the room to get breakfast. He’ll worry about getting dressed later. For now, he’s more intent on getting his hands on some goo and the questionable space-coffee Hunk’s crafted. As much as he promised himself he wouldn’t become dependent on the concoction, Lance has developed an unfortunate taste for the brew.

                  He moseys into the kitchen to find Pidge and Allura already there. Pidge’s head is barely lifted above the table – just high enough to be able to read the tablet she holds before her bowl of goo, and she shovels the green paste into her mouth with the kind of single-minded efficiency that comes from not actually paying attention to what she’s eating. Allura eats at a more human pace, though she’s frowning into the distance as she does. She looks up when the door opens.

                  “Good morning, Lance,” she greets. “How are you feeling?”

                  He shrugs a little.

                  “A little sore,” he admits, “but a lot better.”

                  “Good,” Allura says with a real smile. “You should rest today, too, though. You don’t want to jump in before you’re healed.”

                  “Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” he rejoins with a grin and a teasing salute. “One ordered rest day coming right up.”

                  She rolls her eyes, but it’s with a smile. He counts it as a win and goes for his own bowl of goo. On Earth, it definitely wouldn’t be his pick for a relaxing breakfast, but granola and Greek yogurt aren’t exactly readily available this many light years from the Milky Way.

                  “Where’s everyone else?” he asks in between bites.

                  “Keith was in the training room last I knew,” Allura says. “I think Hunk’s in the hangar with Yellow, Coran is on the bridge, and…I’m not sure where Shiro is, actually. I haven’t seen him since last night.”

                  It’s not entirely surprising, even given last night’s events. Shiro’s a private person, and one who sticks to his own strict routine. It’s more than likely he’s doing his own workout or meditating or whatever it is he does at the interstellar equivalent of the crack of dawn. Lance just hopes he hasn’t forgotten their plans from the night before. He feels suddenly silly at the thought of it, like a little kid expecting too much from an absent promise.

                  Like she can read his mind, Allura shoots him a comforting smile.

                  “I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” she says. “He probably wanted to sleep in a bit after last night.”

                  “Right,” Lance says with his own smile.

                  It feels fake on his lips, and he has a feeling Allura can see right through it. He turns back to his goo and coffee and brushes thoughts of Shiro away. He’ll just take his own spa day. It’s not like he was really that hung up on Shiro joining him or anything. The promise had been mostly a joke in the first place, right? He hadn’t really expected –

                  “Sorry I’m late.”

                  Shiro’s in the doorway, still in pajamas and with some wild bedhead converting his usual undercut into some form of postmodern art. He’s wearing his boots.

                  Somehow, Lance manages not to cave over laughing at the sight. He counts it among his top ten moments of self control and just gives Shiro a big grin.

                  “Sleep well?” he asks.

                  “Uh,” Shiro says, running a hand back through his hair, and Lance immediately winces.

What a stupid question. They all know Shiro gets nightmares. There are nights when they can hear his screams echo down the halls. 

“Yeah, actually,” Shiro says. “Really well.”

He sounds baffled as he says it, like he can’t believe the words coming from his mouth. Based on Allura’s expression and the fact Pidge has finally actually looked up from her tablet, Lance is pretty sure the surprise is universal.

                  “Guess I’ll have to knock you out more often,” Lance jokes.

                  Shiro snorts as he moves into the kitchen to get his own breakfast.

                  “Maybe not that,” he hedges.

                  He picks the seat next to Lance, and Lance studiously ignores the way that makes delight bubble up in his chest. He’s not reviving some stupid crush from the Garrison just because Shiro is being intentionally friendly now. It’s probably out of guilt, anyway, and Lance doesn’t want that. Shiro’s got enough on his shoulders without feeling bad for something that was Lance’s fault in the first place.

                  “You ready for spa day?” he still asks.

                  Shiro scratches the side of his head, just above his ear. He’s been keeping his hair a little longer than before, and it looks soft as his fingertips pass through it.

                  “I’ve never had a spa before,” he admits, “but I think so.”

                  Lance grins and just barely keeps from rubbing his hands together in delight.

                  They finish breakfast, and Lance sends Shiro off to his room to gather a towel and the robe they all have while he goes to get the rest of the supplies. He didn’t have much on him when they launched themselves into this war, but between Allura and the space mall, he’s been able to stock up on a few things. The castle also has a remarkable replicator Coran’s shown him that can create just about anything Lance could dream up. With Coran watching over his use of it, he hasn’t gone too wild, but there were a few things he couldn’t get from the mall that he managed to make here.

                  They meet at the pool, Shiro with his towel and robe draped over his forearm, and Lance with his arms full of bottles. Shiro’s eyes widen at the sight, something like fear creeping into his expression.

                  “Don’t worry,” Lance says hurriedly. “Most of this stuff is just extra – to make the room smell good and be relaxing. That kind of thing.”

                  It doesn’t work quite as well as he’d hoped, but Shiro at least relaxes a little.

                  “Okay,” he says. “What’s first?”

                  “First,” Lance declares, flourishing a random bottle from the pile in his arms, “we set the stage.”

                  This gets a laugh and big grin from Shiro that has Lance beaming in return. They work together, setting out the bottles of sweet-smelling gel that Allura helped Lance find and arranging the other bottles so they’re within easy reach of the water. He has Shiro change while he heads to the light control panel tucked into one of the front alcoves of the room. After he and Keith’s misadventures here, he’d made sure to get a full tour from Allura, and now he knows the room nearly by memory. Three taps later, and the light’s dimmed to a soft gold glow that’s almost like sunset. He sighs, shoulders already starting to relax, and turns around.

                  Shiro sits on the edge of the pool, feet dangling loosely in the water. He’s stripped down to just shorts, and Lance freezes.

                  Shiro’s a private person, always has been. He keeps his problems to himself as much as he can, and he hides what he can behind high walls - and long sleeves. It’s not like Lance didn’t know that he had to have scars from the arena but, well, he’d never given it thought. The prosthesis and the scar across his nose had always been the extent that the team was shown.

                  Now, though, everything is laid bare. Scars knot their way across Shiro’s chest and shoulders, around his calves, through the top of his foot. There’s a v-shaped one over his pecs that reminds Lance uncomfortably of autopsies on cop procedurals back home. Some of them are the same faded pink as the one across Shiro’s nose, but others are a sickly purple, mottled and unnatural.

                  “Sorry,” Shiro says. “I can put my shirt back on.”

                  Lance flinches and immediately winces.

                  “No, no,” he says, raising up his hands and walking hurriedly back to Shiro. “I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have been staring. It just caught me by surprise, I guess. I don’t think you’ve ever taken off your shirt around us.”

                  Shiro pauses with his hand already reaching back to grab his shirt. He eyes Lance a moment, as if evaluating how much of what he’s said is true. Slowly, he releases the shirt and brings his hand back to lay on his lap with his other.

                  “I didn’t really think about it,” he says.

                  That surprises Lance, but he manages to mitigate his reaction this time. There’s no need to make Shiro anymore uncomfortable. Still, it seems out of character for Shiro to not think about that kind of thing. He’s always been excessively conscientious - avoiding touching the paladins with his prosthesis as much as possible and never bringing up his time with the Galra unless it was absolutely necessary.

                  “Good!” Lance says instead, forcefully chipper. “We’re here to relax, not stress about stuff.”

                  He slides feet-first into the water as well, waving his arms back and forth under the water to stay afloat. He’s not really sure how deep this pool is, but he knows he can’t touch bottom and still breathe. Some time, when they have a breather, he wants to try to dive down to the bottom. If he squints, he thinks he can almost make it out under the dappled waves.

                  Shiro gives him a little smile, amused.

                  “I thought we were having a spa,” he says with a nod at Lance’s treading, “not going for a swim.”

                  “Afraid to get wet?” Lance teases.

                  One eyebrow raises, and then Shiro lifts his right hand and wiggles the black fingers in a quick ripple. Lance flushes and nearly kicks himself. Of course he’d screw up like this, make Shiro feel like crap when he was trying to do the opposite.

                  “Aw shit,” he says. “I’m sorry – I didn’t think-”

                  Shiro waves off the apology.

                  “I’m messing with you,” he says. “I mean, I don’t think the arm should get submerged, but it’s not a big deal.”

                  He says it with an easy smile, and Lance can feel himself relaxing immediately.

                  “Right,” he says, swimming the two strokes over to the edge of the pool where Shiro sits. “Well, good news is, we’ll be over there on the stairs.”

                  Shiro follows him over, padding along the edge of the pool while Lance swims the few strokes over. He can’t be sure, but it seems like Shiro’s more relaxed than usual – like some of the weight’s been removed from his shoulders along with his shirt. If that’s the case, lance vows to get Shiro’s shirt off more often.

                  There’s a moment, mid-stroke, where Lance realizes what he’s just thought and nearly drowns in his own surprise. His face is hot with mortification, and he silently prays Shiro can’t tell.

                  “So!” he says once they’ve both reached the stairs. “To start: a nice hot soak.”

                  Shiro steps gingerly into the water while Lance reaches up to grab a couple bottles from the side. When he’s turned around, Shiro’s settled on one of the middle steps with his back against the wall and right arm stretched out along the edge. His back’s still stiff where he sits, and the way his shoulder’s hiked up looks miserable. Lance wiggles the three bottles in his fingers.

                  “Pick your poison,” he says. “Space lavender, space chamomile, or space – honestly, I’m not sure what this one is, but Allura likes it.”

                  At Shiro’s blank look, Lance falters a moment before shifting tactics. He pops two of the caps with his thumbs and starts rearranging the bottles to open the third.

                  “Here, just take a whiff and decide which you like,” he suggests, holding them out.

                  Shiro winces and holds out his hands to stop Lance.

                  “Sorry,” he says. “It’s just – after this, I can’t really smell anything.”

                  He gestures to the scar across his nose as he says it, and Lance frowns. He could’ve sworn they’d talked about smells before – or, well, reacted to them. Shiro had never seemed to miss the scent of Hunk’s cooking that he could tell.

                  “What was your favorite smell – before? Back on Earth,” he asks.

                  He knows they’ve talked about that. It’s rare for them to indulge in nostalgia, and Shiro of all of them tends to stay out of too many homesick reminiscences. Still, he knows there was one time they all got caught up in memories hanging around the lounge after a rough mission – he’s half-certain Shiro mentioned his aunt’s peach cobbler. Shiro shrugs.

                  “I can’t really remember. Sorry,” he says.

                  “Oh,” Lance says, a little disappointed. “Well, let’s try Allura’s mystery scent.”

                  Shiro smiles, and Lance feels a little more settled as he deposits the other bottles on the edge of the pool. The liquid is a vibrant raspberry pink, and the moment it spills into the pool, they’re inundated with a sweet scent. Lance wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t know how to describe it. It’s floral, like flowers or fruit, but not cloying like perfume.

                  Lance leans back, breathing deep. When he opens his eyes, Shiro’s watching him with a little smile. Lance flushes.

                  “Right. So, first up – faces,” he says, grabbing the jar of face mask.

                  Shiro’s inexperience with spas clearly comes through here; his bangs get caught in the blue cream and when he’s done, he looks more lizard than human. His thick brows are completely caked, and it turns scaly as it dries. Lance doesn’t even try stifling his laughter. Fortunately, Shiro’s laughing, too.

                  “I’m a pilot, not a makeup artist,” he gripes good-naturedly.

                  “You’re a mess,” Lance snorts.

                  It’s endearing, though. Their roles as paladins are more than full-time – it’s not like they get weekends off or vacation days from saving the universe – and Shiro especially wears the weight of his rank even without the armor. To see him so unburdened is a rare treat. More than the sweet smells or hot water, it’s that that has Lance relaxing back into the pool wall. It’s as if Shiro’s relaxation gives his own body permission to let go.

                  There is one thing, though, still holding back. Despite his laughter and easy mood, Shiro’s still holding his shoulders like he’s braced for a fight. Lance hesitates, unsure whether it’s a good idea, before relenting.

                  “Hey, do you want – your shoulders look really tense,” he finally says. “Want me to give you a quick backrub?”

                  Shiro blinks in surprise, and Lance immediately regrets asking. Subtlety has never been his strong suit – but this time, he really does only want to help.

                  “I’m kind of used to it, honestly,” Shiro admits, reaching back with his left hand to his trap.

                  “That doesn’t seem healthy,” Lance says. “You said you’ve been getting headaches – some of it could be from the tension.”

                  Shiro considers this for a beat before nodding.

                  “That’s a good point,” he says. “Sure, if you don’t mind.”

                  They rearrange themselves into a workable position. It’s a little complicated with trying to keep Shiro’s prosthesis out of the water, and Lance jokes that it needs its own pool floatie. Shiro cracks up at that, chest shaking with laughter. Seated behind him, Lance grins.

                  If possible, Shiro’s back and shoulders are even tenser than they looked: at first, it’s hard to tell what’s bone and what’s knotted muscle. Lance starts gingerly, gently kneading the muscle and with his fingers. Every so often, Shiro gives out a little whimper or sigh that makes Lance pause and check in with him.

                  “No, it’s good,” Shiro says every time. “Good pain.”

                  Lance squints a little at that description but doesn’t bother questioning it. As he goes on, the muscle starts loosening up under his hands. At one point, there’s a sudden give in the knots under Shiro’s shoulderblade, and he slumps forward.

                  “Holy shit,” he breathes.

                  “Still good?” Lance asks.

                  “Yeah,” Shiro says softly. “Whoa. That feels incredible.”

                  Lance grins and shifts to using the heels of his hands to work out the remaining tension. When he’s done, it’s not perfect, but Shiro’s back at least feels like a back and not like coiled metal. They shift apart to resume the rest of the spa, but this time, Lance is happy to see how he relaxes back into the pool wall.

                  He guides Shiro through the different steps in the process, but he doesn’t worry about whether or not either of them are doing them wholly right. The creams and scents and bubbles aren’t half as important as Shiro’s laugh and the way he leans easily into the wall.

                  By the time they’re done, there’s a blue streak dried into Shiro’s bangs and one of the bottles has floated all the way to the other end of the pool. Lance swims after it while Shiro climbs out. By the time he’s retrieved the bottle and returned, Shiro’s shrugging into his robe. It’s the same as Lance’s in design but somehow seems more regal with its black and white.

                  “Brr!” Lance shivers as the air hits his wet skin.

                  He pats his skin dry with his towel as quickly as he can, but he’s still grateful when Shiro holds up his robe. Rather than just passing it over, Shiro helps him put it on and smoothes out the fabric over his shoulders. Goosebumps chase after his touch, and Lance tells himself it’s just from the temperature difference.

                  They gather the supplies together, and Shiro helps carry them back to Lance’s room. They don’t talk much on the way, but it’s a comfortable quiet – content.

                  “Thanks, Lance,” Shiro says when they’ve dropped off the supplies. “That was really nice.”

                  “Of course,” Lance answers with a grin, “and really, any time you want some help with your back – well, you know where to find me.”

                  Shiro gives his shoulder an experimental roll and nods, smiling a little.

                  “I’m probably going to take you up on that,” he admits. “You seem to have the magic touch.”

                  Lance definitely doesn’t preen at that – at least not right there. After Shiro leaves though, as he sets about putting everything back in its place, he can’t stop humming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh poor Lance and Kuron and Shiro and uh. everyone. enjoy the happy while it lasts, boys

**Author's Note:**

> :D any time I have an excuse to play with Shiro on the astral plane, you can bet your ass I'mma do it
> 
> also like, to be clear: I'm a Shiro fan first and a Voltron fan second. Kuron gets some shit but he's not the enemy here, and while it's through Lance's POV, the whole team is definitely going to get their time in the spotlight


End file.
